


What Will It Take To Make You Listen?

by MademoiselleAbaisse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Boom. Three of my biggest kinks in one fic., Canon verse, Grantaire comes in his pants., M/M, Public Humiliation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselleAbaisse/pseuds/MademoiselleAbaisse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from this prompt on the Kink Meme:</p><p>Grantaire is drunk and disorderly at a meeting at the Musain. Enjolras gets fed up and pulls him onto his lap and spanks him in front of everyone. He doesn't notice how aroused he gets from doing this.<br/>Grantaire, who, let's be honest, has been hard all night from watching Enjolras, is too drunk to restrain himself, and he comes while Enjolras is spanking him.</p><p>Enjolras is very confused because "Why does my leg feel wet all of a sudden!?"</p><p>Grantaire is very confused because "What the fuck is poking into my stomach?!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Will It Take To Make You Listen?

**Author's Note:**

> I know I need to update my other fics, you guys...but for some reason, ideas for new stories comes to me a lot easier than ideas for continuing other ones! If you're waiting for an update from me, it will happen. I promise. As soon as I can.
> 
> For now, please enjoy some canon-verse spanking, shamelessly angry Enjolras, and shamelessly horny Grantaire.

Enjolras scanned the small crowd gathering in the Café Musain. With his eyes slightly narrowed, he stood at the front of the room, searching, searching. To the outside observer, it would appear as though he were counting heads, trying to quantify the amount of young men in the dingy room. But Enjolras couldn’t care less how many people were present that night. He sighed almost imperceptibly when his gaze did not turn up a certain unruly head of inky black hair. The meetings were impossibly dull without Grantaire, even for Enjolras. He could talk of revolution for hours and hours to an audience teeming with agreement, but the young idealist rather enjoyed the challenge of discoursing with the cynic. He enjoyed the volley of words, of opinions, as Grantaire sat amongst his friends and dared to question him. No one else deigned to challenge Enjolras: he was their leader, their chief. He was not to be questioned. Somehow, Grantaire was an exception to the rule. Enjolras governed his entire existence with a very specific set of unspoken rules. Yet somehow Grantaire was an exception to all of them. Enjolras held high contempt for anything that could distract him from the cause. Cynicism, alcohol, sex, desire…Grantaire was nothing if not a perfect synthesis of everything Enjolras disdained. He hated and loved the way Grantaire drunkenly made wild declarations at meetings. He hated and loved the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he rose to challenge Enjolras. He loved and hated when he would awaken at odd hours of the night, drenched in sweat, stirred from sleep by the sound of Grantaire’s name on his lips and the dull, persisting ache between his thighs. It wasn’t right, the way he thought of Grantaire when his mind was not otherwise occupied by thoughts of revolution. But perhaps what was most maddening of all was that despite all this, despite the way Grantaire unknowingly tortured him, Enjolras rather liked the wretched man. 

 

No one knew this, least of all Grantaire. Everyone believed that Enjolras despised Grantaire, could hardly stand the sight of him. Courfeyrac believed it. Jehan and Joly believed it. Grantaire believed it. And at times, even Enjolras let himself believe it. It was the only way he could ignore his damned feelings for the drunkard: By forcing himself to believe he hated him as much as he wished he could. Perhaps this was why, when Grantaire finally stumbled through the door, drunker than usual, Enjolras felt the need to reprimand him before all of their friends. “Late again, winecask?” his harsh tone floated easily through the Musain, and the rest of their companions fell silent at its sound. Grantaire simply blinked up at him with bloodshot eyes, grinning stupidly. Enjolras sighed. “Why must you insist upon arriving late and intoxicated, Grantaire? I fail to see how you are of any use here. Wouldn’t your presence be much better welcomed urinating in a gutter somewhere?” Enjolras barely tasted the venom upon his lips.  
“Nah,” Grantaire dismissed him with a grand gesture. “No gutter in Paris is quite so pleasing to piss on, as you are to piss off, dear Apollo.” At this, silent laughter bubbled up amongst their friends, but it was cut short with a burning glare from Enjolras.  
“Grantaire,” he hissed, feeling the dull heat of anger rising in his chest. “I do not care if you mock me. But when you repeatedly besmirch my meetings with your drunken presence and cynical comments, arriving late no less, you are mocking the very cause for which I stand, for which all of the men in this room would live and die for. Do you understand how disrespectful, how idiotic-“

He was cut off by a low laugh from Grantaire. “Don’t I know it, Apollo? Don’t I live to anger you, to see the passion in your eyes turned upon me? Upon wretched, drunk, worthless Grantaire?” their friends had gone silent as they watched the volley of words between the two men.

Enjolras felt a growl threatening to tear from his chest. “Grantaire,” he said slowly, dangerously. “I have scolded you. I have berated you. I have shamed you. I have discouraged you, and yet you continue your disgusting habits? Clearly you are a man for whom words have no meaning. What will it take to make you _listen_?” An idea was forming in Enjolras’ head. It wasn’t a pretty one. But it just might work.

Grantaire staggered forward, unwittingly putting himself within arm’s reach of Enjolras. “I’d like to see you try to find out, Apollo,” he smirked, swaying on his feet, feeling invincible. 

Enjolras’s eyes fluttered shut. “You should know better than to issue me such a challenge, Grantaire.”

The drunk paused then, reveling in the way his Apollo’s lips curled around his name. Why was Enjolras so unbearably irresistible when he was angry? The way he growled, and spat Grantaire’s name was enough to cause every drop of blood in the drunkard’s body to flow rapidly south, with no intent of returning to circulation any time soon. He shrugged, looking up at Enjolras defiantly. “But I don’t. I don’t know better,” he challenged, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a useless drunk after all, incapable of believing, or-“

Before he could finish quoting Enjolras, the blonde man had grabbed Grantaire harshly by the wrist, pulling him towards him none too gently, sitting down in his chair and yanking Grantaire, face-down, across his lap. A collective gasp ran through their friends. Some looked away, and some found it impossible not to stare. “If words will not instill within you the error of your ways,” Enjolras growled, “Then perhaps you will learn by my hand.” With that, he brought the flat of his palm down hard across Grantaire’s backside. The slap rang out across the darkened room of the Musain, falling heavily upon the silence of their friends. The drunk let out a grunt, partially in pain, and partially because the inertia of Enjolras’s strike had caused Grantaire’s hips to drag across the top of the revolutionary’s thigh, giving him a dangerous dose of the friction he so fervently craved. “That was for arriving late and drunk tonight,” Enjolras hissed, raising his hand again. The smack of his palm on Grantaire’s flesh was deafening. “That was for standing before all of our friends and mocking their cause. My cause.” Grantaire groaned, fighting the urge to roll his hips forward against Enjolras’s thigh. If he had been wanting before, he was painfully hard now, and the fearless leader seemed far too incensed to notice. Another strike rang out, and this time, Grantaire used it as an excuse to thrust shamelessly against Enjolras’s leg. “That was for playing DOMINOES when you were charged with a very different task from me,” he spat, layering another slap on top of the previous one. Grantaire grit his teeth. He had not been expecting this. He had perhaps expected to get drunk, appear at the Musain, and eventually end up taking a pretty girl home, if only to pretend she was someone else. That someone else was mercilessly taking out all of his frustration on Grantaire’s backside at the present moment. He took a deep, albeit shaky breath. 

“Enjolras-“ he whispered, in an attempt to speak. Another harsh slap across the thickest part of his ass. 

“Do not attempt to speak with me while I am punishing you,” Enjolras bristled, letting his hand rain down once more upon Grantaire’s flesh. The drunkard couldn’t help it this time: he let out a full-throated moan that he knew Enjolras and the others would take for pain and discomfort. He alone knew the truth.

Enjolras had thrown caution to the wind, and it was taking its toll on him. He hardly noticed the tension coiling low in his belly as he struck Grantaire again and again. He had more pressing issues to attend to. He gave up the practice of dedicating his strikes to Grantaire’s various misdemeanors, and began to punish the drunk without abandon, varying the placement and velocity of his strokes, until Grantaire was shaking and whimpering in his lap, begging incoherently. What Enjolras and the others perceived as Grantaire begging him to stop was, in reality, Grantaire begging for more. Suddenly, between vicious slaps, Grantaire felt something. Something else. Something new. A strange pressure, as if something very hard was poking into his belly- oh. OH…Grantaire shuddered as he made the realization. Enjolras was aroused. He was hard from this, hard from GRANTAIRE…the thought was too much for the cynic to bear, and with Enjolras’s next strike, he could not restrain himself from his release, shuddering and gasping between the flat of Enjolras’s palm, and the top of his thigh. He felt the warm sticky sensation spread across the front of his trousers, and he silently thanked a god he didn’t believe in that he had chosen to wear a dark pair tonight. Enjolras kept striking relentlessly, slowing when he felt a strange warm sensation upon his leg. Unfamiliar with matters of the flesh, and perhaps even more unfamiliar with the concept of male release, he was perplexed to say the least. He struck Grantaire one last time, and the drunk felt Enjolras’s cock twitch against his stomach with the blow. He exhaled in relief and in exaltation, panting, barely registering that Enjolras’s hand still rested gently on his backside. Their friends were watching with a mixture of amusement, embarrassment, and horror, but as Enjolras finished his self-appointed task they began to dissipate into their normal conversation. Finally, it was as if they were alone at the front of the room. “You will not,” Enjolras growled, “Continue to disobey me. For this will be your punishment.”

Grantaire grinned weakly as he dragged himself upward, kneeling beside Enjolras. “If this is to be my punishment, dear Apollo, I fear I shall have to disobey more.” With that, he reached out to give Enjolras’s straining erection a firm squeeze, dragging himself to his feet, and limping away still grinning, presumably to find another bottle. Enjolras blinked after him incredulously, and looked down at his lap in restrained horror. He had hardly been aware of the state he had managed to put himself in, but Grantaire’s brazen squeeze had alerted him to it. Staring back at him was an immensely prominent and fairly obvious erection, and Enjolras swallowed thickly, his heart hammering in his chest. He excused himself quickly from the meeting, locking himself in an entirely abandoned room, sinking back against the door. And for one of the first times in his life, Enjolras reached down to the fall-front of his trousers, unbuttoned them with shaking fingers, and took himself in hand, with a palm that still smarted from where he had struck Grantaire repeatedly. He groaned. Oh, god. Grantaire be damned…but as Enjolras unraveled in his own hand with a cry, it was Grantaire’s name that was on his lips.


End file.
